He was a writer and a prolific reader. But today whatever he read didn't agree with him. He tried to forget the uneasiness by taking a stroll. But the words just bobbed up and down his uneasy self. His stomach churned. He was feeling nauseous. His hands trembled. He somehow made it to the garbage can next to the park. He threw up like never before. The words just flowed out of him as if a dam burst. He saw them lying there in the moonlight. The long ones and the short ones, complete with punctuations and accents. He spat out the last few words that were in his mouth and went to the nearby tap to wash off the familiar bad print taste.
I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the ...
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